


It's The End Of The World As We Know It

by lapsus_calami



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also Shockingly Low Levels Of Animosity Because I Am Apparently Incapable Of Writing Major Discourse, And Malia Is A Dog, Competent Lydia, Dean POV, F/M, Gen, Grumpy Derek, Just Car Accidents, Kid!Stiles, M/M, No Werewolves, Such Vague Allusions To Dean Winchester/Derek Hale It's Almost Not Worth Mentioning, Surprisingly Introspective Dean, Teen Wolf/Supernatural Life As We Knew It AU, and Unhelpful Sam, hurt/comfot, no demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:43:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Allison are dead. Dean and Derek have zero idea how they're supposed to deal with it. Especially since "it" includes joint custody of young Stiles. </p><p>AKA the Teen Wolf/Supernatural Crossover Life As We Know It AU someone actually did ask for kinda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The End Of The World As We Know It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cuppa_Char](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppa_Char/gifts).



> Inspired by an ask I got on tumblr.  
> Also, I wrote this at work on my tablet which, unfortunately for me, does not have spellcheck. I've read through it multiple times, but if you find any random mistakes do let me know so I can fix them.

** It's The End Of The World As We Know It **

It's the end of the world as they know it. 

That's the only thought running through his mind as the officer sits opposite him and Derek. The world is crumbling down around them all with every word of contrived condolence falling from the officer's mouth. The room fades out of focus, the officer's voice drifting away until all he can hear is the thump, thump, thump of his heart. 

It's the end of the world as they know it, and Dean feels anything but fine.

* * *

 "A car crash?" Derek asks and he sounds wrecked. Dean doesn't fault him for it; his own throat is too tight to get a single word out let alone a whole, coherent sentence. 

The officer nods. "That's right. Another driver ran a stoplight. Right now it's being ruled an accident." 

"An accident?" Dean says, a flare of rage bursting through him. Derek shoots him a warning look that Dean ignores. 

"It appears to have been a mechanical failure," the officer explains. 

Dean scrubs his hands over his face still struggling to wrap his mind around the words and what they mean. He digs his fingers into his eyes hoping to fend off the mounting headache he can feel building. It's world ending and part of him is trying to flee from the knowledge. He can’t imagine his life without Allison, Scott, and—

"Oh my god," he says yanking his head up as a sick and terrible feeling rolls through him. "Stiles?"

Derek jerks in his seat, an expression of absolute devastation washing over his features. The officer frowns lightly a moment before he grasps to whom Dean is referring.

"Their son is fine," he says and Dean swallows, closing his eyes as the relief flows though him leaving his limbs cold and shaky. "Stiles," the officer continues saying the boy's name with a sense of unfamiliarity, "was with a sitter at a time. He's with child services presently." 

"What's going to happen to him now?" Derek asks, hands clenched and voice tight. Dean bites his lip recalling the few stories Derek has shared through the years of his own time in the system. 

The officer smiles faintly. "In accordance to his parents' will Stiles is to be released into your care."

* * *

_"Bite me, Hale," Dean snaps carefully moving his hands to keep Stiles' tottering form from falling off his lap. The kid may be barely four months old, but he sure likes to move around; if Dean's not careful the kid will probably manage to take a face dive into the floor._

_"Not if you paid me," Derek practically purrs all condescending like, and Dean's got a retort ready on the tip of his tongue but Allison smoothly cuts in._

_"Play nice, boys," she says with a soft smile as she meets Scott's gaze across the table. The overwhelming sweetness almost makes Dean want to gag. They're pathetic, really. Dean can't believe he's friends with them._

_"I just don't see why you're going through all of this," he says returning to the earlier conversation before Derek had stuck his big nose where it didn't belong. Derek sniffs and Dean decides to be the bigger man and ignore the_ _eye-roll._

_Allison flips to the next page in the will—a bona fide will like she and Scott are middle aged suburban grandparents instead of newly weds approaching their one year anniversary with a four month old—and says sagely, "Because it's responsible."_

_Derek snorts muttering under his breath, "Like_ he _knows anything about being responsible."_

_Dean restrains himself from rolling his eyes and sticking out his tongue; it's a near thing but he successfully doesn't rise to the bait this time. Derek's one to talk anyway; man's the definition of uptight and wouldn't know fun if it bit him in the ass and danced naked around a stripper pole. Dean, on the other hand, would be the one dancing around that stripper pole. Fun is his middle name._

_ "It's_ _ab_ _out being prepared," Scott adds, and isn't that him and Allison in one simple word—prepared. Scott grins and takes the pen from Allison to sign. "Never hurts to be prepared." _

* * *

Dean doesn't know what the fuck Scott and Allison were thinking. There are no two people in the entire world less prepared to take care of a child than him and Derek Hale. Probably no two people in the whole goddamn universe. Stiles would have better chances if he were dropped in an African jungle and left to the gorillas.  

What were Scott and Allison _thinking_? 

"Hey." 

Dean jumps, swearing under his breath before snapping his mouth shut. He'd need to get a handle on that here soon apparently. Derek arches one eyebrow, silently judging as Dean swipes a sleeve over his face and clears his throat. 

"Hey," he says wincing at how hoarse he sounds. Hell, compared to Derek he probably looks like an absolute wreck. 

"Uh, I know you took a cab from the airport," Derek says. His keys dangle from his fingers as he shuffles his feet. "So you need a ride?" 

Dean licks his lips considering. He could just call another cab, but a part of him still feels vaguely in shock and Derek is offering the easiest solution. Not to mention the most practical solution since they're both going to the same location. "Uh, yeah," he says after a moment. "Yeah, thanks. "

"No problem," Derek replies with an easy roll of his shoulders as if he wasn't offering something he wouldn't have been caught dead doing not two days before. 

The car ride is silent, just two steps beyond comfortable into awkward, and Dean watches the buildings slide by with uncharacteristic rapt attention. Eventually Derek shifts, a quiet creak of leather against leather, and Dean catches the slight intake of air that prefaces Derek's words. 

"You're freaking out about this," Derek says and Dean just snorts. 

"You aren't?" he asks somehow sounding both scathing and terrified at the same time.

Derek swallows, illuminated briefly as they pass beneath a street lamp. The orange light bathes his olive skin in a warm glow and casts his face into sharp relief. 

"I don't know," he admits sounding like he doesn't quite understand his own answer.

Dean gets it though, feels the same way. This whole thing can be boiled down to that one phrase—they just don't know. The world is falling to pieces around them and they don't know what the hell they're doing. 

He does know one thing though. Derek and he are going to be absolutely terrible at this parenting thing.

* * *

Stiles is a smart kid. Always has been. It doesn't matter how many nice bows Dean and Derek try to tie around the news. The kid's parents are still dead and Stiles is too smart for his own good.

Dean doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to help a three-year-old process the concept of death. Doesn't know how to answer the questions Stiles is asking. Every word out of his mouth feels wrong and every so often Derek looks at him likes he's grown two heads.

It's awkward and terrible and Dean fucking hates it. 

It feels like a failure, and he supposes it's just the first of many.

* * *

_"Oh, Dean," Allison says tone absolutely dripping with relief. "Thank God, could you just hold him for a second?"_

_ She doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't heed his awkward stuttering and fumbling, just thrusts Stiles out at him so the kid's face is level with his own and there's really no other choice but to accept.  _

_ "Uh," Dean says having no idea how he ended up with a baby in his hands less than two seconds after stepping into his friend's house. "Allison, I have no idea what I'm doing with him!" he calls only a little hysterically. Stiles blinks at him, seemingly totally at ease with Dean clutching at him nearly six feet off the floor. _

_"Just hold him," she hollers back so Dean does, two big hands wrapped around the infant's chest beneath chubby arms suspending the baby in the air as far away from himself as possible._

_ Stiles gurgles, arms twitching and a glob of drool bubbling from between his lips. It slides down his chin and lands on Dean's hand with a wet splat. He screws his face up in disgust muttering a quiet, "Ew," and trying to determine if there is a way to wipe it off without dropping the kid. It seems like there should be, but Dean can't quite figure it out._

_Apparently finding some measure of amusement in Dean's expression, Stiles flails his legs and grins, a soft coo of what Allison calls laughter emanating from his tiny chest. It sounds like more random grunting to Dean._

_ "Ha ha," Dean says with a scowl that isn't quite genuine. "Laugh it up now, buddy, cause you ain't ever drooling on me again." _

* * *

If there's one thing Dean absolutely hates it's fucking funerals. They're exhausting and if he has to listen to one more person offer empty platitudes about his best friend's tragic accident he thinks he might actually murder someone. Judging by the way Stiles is slumped against Dean's shoulder studiously ignoring everyone he agrees with the first part. And judging by the way Derek's smile is getting sharper and the line of his shoulders tenser he agrees with the second.

Dean shifts Stiles against his hip staring out over the people milling about. It's getting late and, really, he and Derek have the perfect excuse to leave, not that they _need_ one. He catches Derek's eye and jerks his chin towards the door, gets a slight draw of eyebrows in response. He lets Derek take care of the goodbyes, just asks Stiles if he's ready to leave. A slow nod is the only response, and Dean ignores the clench in his gut at Stiles' continued silence.

It's another hour and a half before they get back to the house, another two hours before they get Stiles settled, and somehow he and Derek find themselves sitting across from each other in the kitchen bathed in the harsh glow of fluorescent lights as they stare down at cups of coffee neither of them really need.

"How are we going to do this?" Dean whispers finally giving voice to the looming question of doom in the room. 

Derek flexes his fingers around his mug. "I have some vacation time saved up at work. I can use that and work from home for a bit," he says softly. "I know you work a lot."

Dean does, has to because he lives paycheck to paycheck most months. It's never bothered him before, but those hours won't work anymore. "I can cut back some," he says. "Move to second shift maybe. That way I can watch Stiles in the mornings, then you can watch him in the evenings."

Money will be tight and Dean absolutely hates working second shift, but he'll do it with no complaint.

Derek nods slowly, brows drawing together. "We need to decide what we're going to do with the house," he says and Dean sighs.

"I think we should keep it," he says relieved when Derek doesn't seem surprised at his answer. "At least for a while. Stiles needs the familiarity."

* * *

When Dean was four years old his mother burned to death in Sam's nursery, and when he was twenty-five his dad passed away from a stroke. When Allison was seventeen her mother kissed Allison goodbye one day and then took her own life. When Derek was fifteen his entire family died in a house fire. When Scott was twenty-three his father was killed in the line of duty. 

Not one of them has ever been a stranger to loss. They all know what it feels like, they know the stages, they know intimately the pain that accompanies death.

Dean likes to joke, _liked_ to joke, that they are some sort of support group for mostly orphaned children. Like their own personal grief counseling group. 

It's not much of a joke anymore. 

He doesn't want to add best friend to those he's lost. He doesn't want Derek to have lost half of his surrogate family. He doesn't want Stiles to have a membership card to the shittiest club on the planet. And he doesn't know if he and Derek will be enough. 

* * *

_"Do you really need all this space, Ally?" he asks peering into yet another room._

_ Allison trails behind him one hand pressed to the small of her back trying to relieve some of the ache from her swollen stomach as she leans against the railing of the stairs. "We already have one baby on the way," she says wryly like Dean isn't abundantly aware of that fact. "And we want more." _

_Dean hums prowling through the rest of the upstairs quickly and even popping his head up into the attic to check out the storage space. He has to admit, the house is nice even if all the extra space would drive him absolutely nuts. He likes the simplicity of his studio apartment downtown, and he can't imagine having to clean all of this._

_ "But seriously though," he says dropping down one step to peer at Allison through the rungs of the ladder, "what are you even gonna do with all this space?" _

_ Allison smiles wistfully, stroking a hand over her stomach. "We're gonna live in it." _

* * *

Keeping the house turns into _keeping_ the house. Among other things, like a goddamn child, Allison and Scott left them an unfortunate amount of debt and inheritance taxes are a joke. Not their fault, not really, but the fact of the matter is that after four weeks and several visits to a lawyer it's abundantly clear neither he nor Derek possess the financial ability to maintain their own residences and the house with Stiles.

Useful knowledge that somehow results in them deciding the only logical course of action is to move in together and raise Stiles. Like some whacked version of _Two Men And A Baby_. It's ridiculous, and Dean hates the idea because up until now it's been easy to kind of pretend Allison and Scott were just on some extended away trip. And now he and Derek have spent the day destroying that illusion. 

Most of Allison and Scott's things have been carefully packed away in the attic; the house no longer looks like it is exclusively theirs because it's not anymore. Evidence of Dean and Derek can be found in every room. The master bedroom is no longer a seldom entered shrine and the room across the hall is no longer a guest room. It's different yet familiar, and the loss of it, even something so benign, tears anew at the ache in his chest that has just barely started to ease.

"Hey."

Dean jumps, startled from his thoughts, and drops the picture he'd been staring at to the bed. He twists to glare at the other man snapping without any real heat, "Christ, dude, make some noise, will you?"

"Sorry," Derek says somberly leaning against the doorjamb. The apology is strange enough still that Dean's stomach tries to devour itself. 

"Don't do that either," he complains replacing the picture of Scott and Allison on the porch of their newly bought house on the nightstand. "It's weird."

"Sorry," Derek repeats but there's a different lilt to the word now, an almost softly teasing undertone. Dean doesn't think that's any less weird to be honest. "Are you okay?"

It's not the first time Derek has asked; it's certainly not any less odd than the first few times. But Dean caught on pretty quick that Derek usually asks when he isn't all that okay himself. And after a day of taking one more step in coming to terms with the fact that both their best friends are now dead Dean figures neither one of them is really all that okay.

Dean purses his lips, lets a pale imitation of a smile try to stretch across his face. "Not really," he admits, and he's not surprised when Derek bows his head in agreement.

* * *

Dean knows it's probably super unattractive but he's running on less than two hours of sleep, about eight cups of coffee, Derek's only been back to work for two days, and for some reason Dean's left foot is trapped in a laundry basket so he doesn't care if his mouth just hangs open for a solid few seconds after he answers the insistently ringing doorbell. He's just shocked as hell to see a model worthy and vaguely familiar redheaded woman standing on the steps with a dish of food. He shakes his foot until the basket falls free with a distinct smack and forces his mouth closed as he tries to find adequate words. Fortunately the woman takes pity on him and speaks first when he fails to muster up so much as a hello.

"Look, don't take this the wrong way but I heard Derek ask Jordan how to make macaroni and cheese yesterday so I figured I'd stop by and make sure Stiles was still alive," the redhead says shoving the casserole dish at Dean before inviting herself inside. Maybe if he had more sleep and less coffee that would make some amount of sense. As it is Dean tries to absorb that for a moment while he stares down at the admittedly delicious looking macaroni casserole. 

"I'm sorry," Dean finally says struggling to shut the door without dropping the casserole dish as a random toy makes a concentrated effort to murder him. He finally succeeds in kicking it away, sending it careening into the wall, and nudges the door shut. "But who are you?" 

"Lydia Martin," the woman says turning to offer Dean her hand. "I worked with Allison at the station. I'm the ME."

"Ah," Dean says shaking her hand. Now that she mentions the station, Dean does recognize her from the few times he's visited Allison there. "Thank you for, uh, the food."

Dean doesn't really know what they're going to do with it, the fridge is practically overflowing with food as is from the latest wave of condolence givers, but he appreciates the gesture all the same. Plus it means one more night of him and Derek not arguing about whose turn it is to cook and a guaranteed edible meal rather than a potential call to Poison Control. 

"Sure," Lydia says tossing her head so her glossy hair slides over her shoulder falling partway down her back. "It's Stiles' favorite."

And that, Dean decides, is just an extra added bonus.

* * *

_"I do believe Stiles likes Derek more than he likes you," Isaac remarks._

_ Dean scowls but he can't really argue. Not when Stiles has his face pressed against the window and is excitably screeching, "Der! Der! Der!" over and over like a broken record ever since the douchebag arrived in his sleek black sports car.  _

_"Jealous, Winchester?" Isaac asks nudging Dean in the shoulder._

_"Of course not," Dean growls taking an angry gulp of his beer because he's not. He's not fucking jealous that a two year old likes Derek fucking Hale more than him. He's not. Because he's an adult and adults are mature about this sort of thing._

_Isaac eyes him knowingly. "Sure," he says and it's clear he's just humoring Dean. "Look, you can't blame the kid. Derek just has that pull, you know? And kids are especially vulnerable. They see right through that bushy eyed glower and know Derek's just a big teddy bear."_

_Dean snorts because that's a load of horseshit if he's ever heard one. Derek's the furthest thing from a teddy bear and, despite what Scott told him when they first met, Dean has seven years of anecdotal proof that, yes, Derek really is just that grumpy._

_Besides, right now Dean's the only one who gets high-fives from Stiles so he thinks Derek and he are sort of even._

* * *

The first time he makes Stiles cry after the accident—like really, _really_ cry—Dean's heart literally stops for a solid few seconds, something like clawing panic tearing through his stomach. He's shushing Stiles, pleading with him really and gently brushing tears from his chubby cheeks when Derek storms around the corner eyes flashing like he's ready to beat the ever loving shit out of Dean for being the cause of tears.

Stiles runs straight for him of course, arms thrown out to be held and Derek obligingly scoops him up letting Stiles cling to his neck and slobber snot all over his shirt. 

"What did you do?" he hisses, one hand protectively cradling Stiles' head. 

Dean's mouth hangs open ready to answer but he really doesn't know. He's as clueless as Derek, completely and utterly thrown by Stiles' reaction the trick he'd pulled.

"Stiles," Derek says apparently deciding Dean's fish impression isn't going to be giving him answers anytime soon. "What's wrong?"

Stiles sniffs, keeps his head burrowed up against Derek even as he turns to glare tearfully at Dean, and says with absolute seriousness, "Dean stole my nose."

Well fuck.

It takes Dean nearly half an hour to convince Stiles that no, he didn't really steal Stiles' nose and yes, Stiles will still be able to smell the curly fries from Sara's diner. Stiles eyes him mistrustfully through the whole thing and Derek, the bastard, doesn't stop snickering.

* * *

"Can kids his age even ice skate?" Dean asks wobbling himself as he tries to keep from falling on his ass. As if on cue a little girl who can't be much older than Stiles sails on by like a fucking Olympic skater and promptly leaves the rest of them in the dust. 

"Apparently better than you," Derek observes dryly. 

Lydia overtakes them with ease, neatly using her toe pick to turn and halt before Derek who is helping a somewhat struggling Stiles. 

"Of course they can," she says gently taking Stiles' other hand. "They just need to be taught and to practice." 

By the end of the trip Stiles is skating on his own shadowed by a smoothly gliding Lydia and a competently skating Derek. Dean's ass hurts from falling and his hand smarts from where he pinched it when he collided with the glass wall, but there's an aching warmth in his chest and his cheeks hurt for an entirely different reason than him slamming his face into the penalty box. 

* * *

_"So you really never want to have kids?" Allison asks. "Like ever?" There's no note of judgment in her tone, just genuine curiosity. Dean gets it; after so many years of friendship it isn't often they learn anything new about each other._

_ Dean shrugs. "Not really. I mean, maybe one day, but for now I'm just living by the day, not thinking about the future," he says. He's a man that lives in the present, who doesn't consider the future beyond today, and he likes it just fine for now. Maybe someday he'll give up the freedom of no attachments, but not today and probably not tomorrow. "To settle down like that? It'd take someone pretty special." _

_ Allison absorbs his explanation with an intense look of concentration and smiles softly afterwards. Dean takes a moment to appreciate the beauty of her smile, the way her eyes light up and the warmth that radiates off her. Some day there will be a very lucky man and very lucky kids. _

_"And what about you, Sam?" she asks shifting focus to his brother who sputters through his drink of soda. "You ever think about the future?"_

_ Dean laughs at Sam's vaguely wide-eyed look of panic. "Sammy?" he says with a fondly proud grin. "Now he's the man with a plan. College, law school, marriage, kids, white picket fence, the whole nine yards. He wants it all." _

* * *

Sam comes in for a three day visit one weekend as a show of emotional support. Dean doesn't point out that such a display would have been better suited to a few weeks ago. He knows Sam, being such a hotshot up and coming lawyer, has a limited amount of free time to fly in to visit his brother. He also doesn't point out the hilariously wide eyed expression of panic when Sam meets Stiles for the first time. Most people would peg Sam as the one to have more experience with children, what with his puppy dog eyes and ridiculous hair, but most people would be wrong. When it comes to children Sam's a clueless idiot. Even more than Dean or Derek. 

Which is why Sam's only advice when Stiles starts bawling into Dean's shirt is, "I think you're supposed to feed it when it cries." 

Dean looks at him scandalized. "Dude, I'm pretty sure that's only for babies. Like actual babies," he says shifting Stiles to his left hip. The boy just clings to him like a parasitic monkey and sobs harder. Dean can feel a wet patch starting to grow on his shoulder and wrinkles his nose in disgust even as he runs a soothing hand down Stiles' back.

Derek comes clambering down the stairs with an expression that clearly blames Dean for making Stiles cry. Again. 

"What did you do this time?" Derek asks. 

"Nothing," Dean says honestly. "Ask Sam. All I did was tell him we were going to the amusement park and say we should go get him changed."

Stiles wails again scrabbling his tiny hands over Dean's arms. It takes him twenty minutes to calm Stiles down enough to speak coherently, and it takes Derek an additional fifteen to figure out what the problem is. Dean has a wet snotty spot the size of Texas on his shirt by the time they're all settled enough to leave, but at least no one can see it underneath the stormtrooper costume he's wearing. 

Somehow he never knew Scott and Allison were such giant nerds, but Stiles is happy running around as a tiny Darth Vader and Sam has enough pictures of all of them to prove it to Lydia the next time she comes around.

* * *

"We're outta milk," Dean calls scanning the fridge for a snack before admitting defeat and snagging a banana. He lets the door fall shut with a thud pulling down the peel and taking a big bite. "I'll pick some up in the morning on my way home," he continues around a mouthful of fruit. "Do we need anything else?" 

Silence answers him from the other room, and Dean frowns as he shoves the rest of the banana in his mouth chewing hurriedly while he gathers his phone, wallet, and keys. 

"Derek?" he calls after he swallows. "Do we need anything other than milk?"

He pokes his head around the corner to peer into the living room on his way to the door coming up short at the sight that greets him. Derek is sprawled across the couch on his back with Stiles draped over his chest. Both of them are fast asleep, a small puddle of drool growing on Derek's shirt beneath Stiles' head as  _The Lion King_ plays on the television.  

Dean sighs, shaking his head in exasperated fondness as he crosses the room to pull a blanket from the back of a chair. He shakes it out and gently places it over Stiles and Derek, tucking it in around Stiles' shoulders. 

He presses a light kiss to Stiles' forehead and murmurs a quiet goodbye to both of them as he leaves, pausing only briefly in the doorway to drink in the sight for just a few moments more. 

* * *

_"Why are you such a sour puss?" Dean asks one night, sprawled loose-limbed and comfortable in the lawn chair on Allison’s back patio. Allison and Scott are both dead to the world at the moment, intermittently snoring and curled together on the lounge chair leaving Dean and Derek with just each other for company._

_Derek takes another drink and stares at Dean over the glass more steadily than someone who's drank as much as he has should be able to. "Why are you such an arrogant bastard?" he says with a shrug instead of answering Dean's question._

_It sounds like it might be a rhetorical inquiry but Dean answers anyway. "Because I'm awesome like that."_

_Derek wrinkles his nose like Dean's personally offended him, or maybe like Dean's personality offends him. And, okay, so maybe that isn't a serious answer to the question. Dean takes another drink himself enjoying the pleasant heat of the alcohol._

_"So?" Dean prompts. "Why you all doom and gloom?"_

_The edges of Derek's lips twitch up, almost like he might be fighting a smile. It fosters something warm low in Dean's stomach, or maybe that's just the alcohol. It's definitely just the_ _alcohol._

_"Well," Derek drawls slowly rolling his glass between long fingers, "someone's gotta balance out some of Scott's sunshine. Don'tcha think?"_

* * *

"I think we should get a dog," Derek says out of the blue one day. Dean frowns squinting at the numbers on the paper before him that suddenly make more sense than what just came out of Derek's mouth even though they're still a jumbled mess. 

"I'm sorry, did you just suggest we get a _dog?"_ Dean asks flicking his gaze off the bank statement from hell to focus on Derek's face.

Derek arches one bushy, unamused eyebrow. "Yes."

Dean sighes giving up on balancing the unbalanceable checkbook and pushing his chair away from the table. "Dude, we're barely staying afloat taking care of Stiles here and you want to add a puppy?"

"It doesn't have to be a puppy," Derek says ever infuriatingly logical. "We can get a dog. Adopt one from a shelter. They're having an event in the park tomorrow. We can go, check it out, adopt a young dog. Old enough to be trained and housebroken."

Dean bites his lip, considering it for a long moment before shaking his head. "No, no. We can't get a dog. They're big and messy, and I'm not having one in my car or shedding all over the damn house." 

"Stiles was real excited to go," Derek says in a tone that clearly indicates he knows this will be the clincher. Dean will cave; he always does. "We might as well just have a look if nothing else."

* * *

They do end up going to that thing in the park. And they do end up adopting a two-year-old German Shepherd named Malia because Derek is a sneaky bastard. And she does end up riding in the back of Dean's car head stuck out the window and panting heavily into the breeze. And Dean does have a sort of love/hate relationship with the dumb thing. She's expensive and sheds and tears every goddamn tissue she can find into tiny pieces while inexplicably stealing only Dean's socks out of the laundry baskets and nibbling holes into the toes.

But every time she slobbers over Stiles' nose or flings one of her toys three feet in the air the biggest damn smile lights up Stiles' face. And that, Dean decides, is worth all the cold toes and every bit of dog hair in the world. 

* * *

_"Dean, I want you to meet Scott," Allison says with an earnest grin as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear with one hand and tugs the man holding her other hand closer. "Scott, this is my best friend, Dean."_

_ Allison looks a little nervous, usually is when she introduces Dean to her boyfriends because they haven't all been good reactions in the past. Dean plasters on a smile and shakes Scott's hand pleased the other man seems genuinely happy and relaxed if the goofy grin on his face and warm handshake is anything to go by.  _

_"Nice to meet you," Dean says and Scott returns the sentiment._

_ "I've heard a lot about you," Scott says throwing Allison a pointed look.  _

_ Dean smirks. "Hopefully not all good things," he says giving Allison his own loaded look. She just rolls her eyes and shakes her head in exasperation. "Wouldn't want you to have too high of expectations." _

_Scott pauses a moment as if weighing the sincerity of Dean's words, then laughs. "Not to worry," he says seriously, "it was mostly bad things."_

_ "And this," Allison cuts back in smoothly, linking her arm with Scott's as she nods to the glowering shadow trailing behind them, "is Derek."  _

_Derek has his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders hunched like he wants to be anywhere else in the world but where he is currently. The glower on his face is something impressive even by Dean's standards, probably helped along by his intense brows drawn over equally intense eyes. He shakes Dean's hand with a pinched look of distaste shifting his glare from Dean to Scott then back to Dean._

_ "He's my best friend," Scott adds warmly turning a bit to flash a smile at the other man before turning to Dean and whispering loudly, "Don't worry, he's not nearly as grumpy as he looks." _

_ Judging from the scowl at Scott's words Derek doesn't agree. Dean musters up a amiable grin, and, because the two of them are effectively crashing the lovebirds' date to a carnival where practically everything is designed for pairs, they spend a lot of time together in the subsequent few hours. _

_ By the time he bids everyone goodnight Dean is left with one conclusion: Derek "Sourpants" Hale is a dick. He has zero idea how Scott "Literal Ball Of Sunshine" McCall become the man's best friend. _

_ In the end it doesn't matter. Because the thing about best friends is that their best friends become your best friends too, that way you can all stay best friends forever. It doesn't matter if you absolutely hate one of them; in the end it's worth everything anyway. _

* * *

"I can't believe it's been almost a year," Derek says rolling the neck of his beer between his fingers and slouching back further in his chair to stare up at the stars. 

Dean hums in agreement taking a pull from his own bottle as he knocks his knee gently into Derek's. A lazy smile stretches across Derek's face and Dean takes another drink to mask his answering grin. 

"It's incredible that none of us died," Derek says after a moment. "Lydia should be so proud." 

Dean chuckles, Derek's leg a line of warmth against his own. "Scott and Allison too," he says. "Probably happy we didn't manage to maim their child."

Derek snorts. "And happy we didn't maim each other."

"That too," Dean agrees taking another drink and flicking his gaze to Derek. "Who knew all we needed to get along was forced contact and a toddler?"

Derek rolls his eyes but leans into Dean a little more. "Yeah, who knew?"

* * *

Stiles is giggling in the front yard chasing after Malia like a little mad man every time she chases after the ball Derek throws. He's running a fair bit because Derek has quite the arm, and of course the young Shepherd beats him to the ball every time but Stiles seems to be having fun.

Dean grins to himself, taking a pull from his cold beer and flipping the hamburgers on the grill. The potatoes are done, the hotdogs are sizzling along nicely, and the others have already started arriving, Lydia heading the group and bringing along her famous macaroni and cheese. 

Dean can't believe it's been a year. 

It's they end of the world as they know it, but they'll be fine. 


End file.
